


The Raindrop Prelude

by thediogenes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Mycroft, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediogenes/pseuds/thediogenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Raindrop Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who follows me on tumblr will know that I regularly say "I'm not much of a writer", but here we are.

He's sat at the grand piano. It hasn't been touched in years, along with the rest of the room. This is where he keeps the parts of himself that he denies. No one but him and one other person will ever be welcome here.

There are two oil paintings on the walls. Desperate, frantic abstracts created by his own hand some time in his mid twenties. Both black and grey on white, each unique in their particular blend of colours but similar enough in composition to indicate that they belong together. They look like they're screaming.

The paintings hang over the only piece of furniture in the room apart from the piano — a desk. On it is a single photo of two young boys, housed in a broken frame. The glass is cracked in one corner; a reminder of when he salvaged it from a floor covered in needles and newspaper cuttings. He's never been able to bring himself to repair it.

In front of the photo lies a tie pin, a fox head cast in antique silver. It was a gift bestowed on the only one who'd been able to see through him — a magpie fond of shiny things and grotesque grand gestures; a rival and an equal. But he wasn't the right one. And now he's dead.

His fingers find their position on the keys from muscle memory, resting on the ivory silently. The drive to express himself is largely absent these days. His particular brand of freelance work provides creative stimulation that cannot be matched. The signing of papers, the spilling of blood, the weaving of lies. No one has ever done it better than he has. He paints the world black with the measured touch of an artist, rather than the chaotic hand of insanity. His deception is a masterpiece; a thing of beauty intended for the eyes of one person and one person only.

With an exhale he rolls up his shirt sleeves. He closes his eyes and begins to play. Chopin, opus 28 no. 15. He loses himself.

For once in his life perfection is not his goal, he just wants to  _feel_. He knows this piece like no other. It starts with a gentle serenity, hope. Then mournful darkness and despair, the feeling of being drowned in an icy lake. 

As the tone of the piece gradually changes he becomes aware of soft footsteps in the room. He refuses to acknowledge them. There's only one person it could be, and he knows exactly why they'd choose to visit. Certain activities of his have drawn attention lately, and he'd been hoping that the penny would finally drop. He just wants to enjoy the last minutes of anticipation before he finds out for sure.

He continues to play. Every note lays something of him bare to the room. It's a declaration he cannot make with words, and he continues to play until he reaches the end. 

The last note fades.

“You always were so stupid." he sighs.

He opens his eyes to inevitable. A gun, pointed at his head, wielded by the only person he’s ever loved.

_Give him a puzzle and watch him dance._

He smiles. 

He’s proud of him at last.


End file.
